


The Goodness of their Hearts

by retts



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Community: kinkme_merlin, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sacrifice, Slash, Uther Is A Tyrant, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based loosely on the Hunger Games:</p><p> </p><p><i>"Do you know why I refuse to fight?” Merlin says in a quiet voice later that night. He lifts his head from the circle of his arms. The new bruises are stark on his ashen skin, one eye swollen and new bandages around his waist. His face is so profoundly sad that Arthur does not have the heart to make petty comments.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Goodness of their Hearts

The best knights are from Camelot, though tributes don’t necessarily have to be knights at all; peasants and nobles alike have a chance to fight in the Games. There are times when a tribute from a far-off village will amaze everyone during the tournaments, but not often. Arthur doesn’t think the skinny, pale young man from the Druids will prove to be a surprise. He’s no more than a boy and Arthur shakes his head at the weak tributes from the Druids these last few years. They all had spells and tricks to their aid, but very little in way of physical skill to keep them longer in the Games. This one isn’t even carrying any weapon or shield.

The crowd is unnaturally quiet as the Mercian, tall and muscular, starts circling the Druid. The difference in build is starkly obvious. The only advantage the Druid has is sorcery but good warriors know how to defeat spell-casters with only their sword and shield.

“This is going to be a short battle,” says Arthur with a disappointed sigh. Uther nods in agreement, his eyes focused on the fighters. The silence on his other side makes Arthur glance at Morgana, who is usually incensed by such comments. She is staring at the Druid -- Arthur checks to make sure -- with a stony expression that does little to mask the trembling of her lips, her pale pallour, and her terrified eyes.

He is about to question her when the crowd gives a collective gasp. Arthur looks back to see the Mercian’s sword inches away from his opponent’s chest. The Druid’s mouth is moving but his words are too soft to be heard. For a moment, Arthur thinks the Mercian is immobile because of some sort of spell and his muscles tense in anticipation for an attack as if he is the one in the ring.

But nothing happens. Arthur’s forehead creases in bafflement as the two tributes stand there. The spectators stir with the same confusion sounding in their murmurs.

Then the Mercian suddenly moves, taking a step back, and with an expression of growing anger, he swings his sword towards the Druid’s torso --

And then stops again, the side of the blade just barely grazing the boy’s waist. Morgana clutches at Arthur, but he’s too intent on the strange fight going on to look at her.

“What on earth is happening?” Arthur asks, bemused, staring at the two fighters who are in another standstill. He looks at his father and finds a deep frown on Uther’s face.

The Mercian is glaring at the boy. A disgruntled look comes over his face and he throws his sword to the ground, but the Mercian doesn’t give a declaration of surrender.

Arthur stands, about to demand for an explanation, when the Mercian speaks: “I am not going to fight a boy who refuses to do the same.”

 

 

The feast is stilted later that night without any win to celebrate. The guests are wary of King Uther, who has been shouting all afternoon and is now wearing the look of a man very displeased. He sits in the centre of the feast; shadows from his crown are cast on his face, deepening his eyes, and there is a sinister air around him as he twists the stem of his chalice between his fingers ever so slowly. Arthur does his best to engage the nobles in light conversation but they are fearful of being too loud, too irreverent, too _anything_ that might disturb the King.

The night comes to an early end, to the relief of many. Arthur is back in his chambers just two hours after the start of the feast, when normally the festivity lasts when the night is at its deepest.

Arthur’s manservant has come and gone, leaving him fresh bedclothes that Arthur ignores. He had dragged his chair near the hearth; body slumped down on it with his legs crossed at the ankles, hands gripping a tankard of strong ale. His muscles slowly unwind as the alcohol and fire warms him through. He has not thought of today’s spectacle except to curse the blasted Druid boy -- ridiculously named Merlin -- in his head while he and the entire council had tried to appease his father. Uther had been enraged at the defiance of both Merlin and his Mercian opponent (who had refused to fight the defenseless boy even after Uther ordered him to). Only the many valid reasons given by the councilmen, after many strong cups of robust wine, had stopped Uther from executing the two immediately. The Mercian envoys had hemmed and hawed and eventually decided to withdraw from the Games, promising gold and wheat and better tributes for the next year. Uther had seen them thrown out of Camelot in disgust.

Merlin, though, had been not been excused despite the Druids’ prostrations. Uther had had the look of cold fury on his face that Arthur remembers from the old days of war, all for the young stupid Druid locked up in the dungeons and awaiting his miserable fate.

Arthur feels the same indignation that someone dared disrespect the Games, though not as strongly as his father’s own rage. Underneath the anger is intense curiosity and confusion. Why had the Druid refused to fight, to even defend himself from attacks? Arthur recalls the too-near proximity of the sword to the boy’s heart and his fingers tighten reflexively around his cup; he would not be able to stop his body’s instinctive reaction to protect itself. So why had the Druid done it, when he obviously had known he would earn the High King’s enmity? Is it stupidity, ignorance, hubris, fear?

Arthur doesn’t know but for whatever reason, he needs to know. He -- who has always believed in the sacredness of the Games, who has been its champion for the past two years ever since he’d been of age to join -- he wants to understand this person who seems to be the antithesis of him.

Coming to a decision, Arthur sets the ale down.

The trip down to the dungeons takes longer than it usually does. Arthur changes his mind and then changes it again a few times on his way there. He hesitates again when he sees the guard standing outside the dungeons. His father would not be angry if he talks to the Druid boy. Then again, Uther might see it the wrong way, that Arthur feels sympathy for the prisoner.

In the end, the decision is taken out of Arthur’s hands when he takes a thoughtful step forward into the guard’s line of sight and the guard does not even blink, not even bow respectfully.

Arthur lifts a hand. Nothing. The guard’s eyes remain fixed on the opposite wall.

Arthur’s hand automatically goes to his sword only to close around air. His sword is in his chambers. Silently cursing, Arthur creeps forward and presses himself against wall. The door is slightly ajar. He doesn’t try removing the guard’s weapon. The man has clearly been ensorcelled. It seems Gaius’ drug has worn off quicker than expected; the Druid boy wouldn’t be able to use magic with the restrictive drug still in his system.

Or perhaps the Druid boy’s companions have come to break him free.

Cursing under his breath, Arthur is about to retreat and alert his father when he hears a familiar voice from inside. Fear tugs at Arthur’s gut. He pushes the door open even wider, careful, silently beginning the hinges not to make a noise.

“ -- couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you! Oh gods, the terror I felt!” comes Morgana’s words, emotional, nearly wild. Arthur sucks in a quiet breath, straining to hear more.

“I thought I would die right there and then as well,” the Druid boy is saying lightly, as if it’s nothing more than a joke. “Thank the gods Gwaine didn’t, the noble idiot.”

 _So the Druid boy knows the Mercian? That’s interesting_ , muses Arthur as he frowns. His gaze flickers to the immobile guard and suppresses a shudder. It’s bloody creepy.

“You could have defeated him with your little finger, Merlin.” Morgana doesn’t sound amused. Of course, Arthur isn’t inclined to believe her. He can’t imagine the Druid boy as a threat, even with magic on his side. Yet, Morgana sounds certain of her words. She sounds familiar, as if she knows this Merlin.

Arthur barely stops himself from barging inside, nearly missing the next words Morgana says: “It will come to pass, then, my dreams? I cannot bear -- is it the woman you’re with?”

There is silence and then Merlin says heavily, “I cannot say because _I don’t know_ , Morgana.”

More questions crowd in Arthur’s head. What are they talking of? Dreams? Are they referring to Morgana’s predictive dreams, the ones that leave her pale and shaken and bruise-eyed for weeks?

“I will come back tomorrow,” Morgana promises after an even longer silence than the one before it. “Oh Merlin, I fear what Uther will do to you. You know how he is.”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one,” says Merlin, and his tone is wry for some reason. “He’s been calling me relentlessly ever since I arrived. I might just pop over later.”

Morgana gives a soft laugh. “No, not tonight, the castle is still on edge. Tomorrow.”

With a sigh, Merlin agrees. “Do you think he’ll come round, Morgana?”

“For the sake of Albion, he better.”

Arthur can hardly listen to their farewells, tones affectionate, and he hides in a shadowy corner as Morgana comes out. She doesn’t even glance at the frozen guard as she climbs up the stairs, her skirts rustling softly in the quiet. Arthur follows her immediately, keeping a safe distance. He can talk to the Druid boy later. This conversation will prove more -- interesting.

He catches her before she can enter her room. Morgana stares at Arthur’s hand on her elbow, eyebrow quirking high. Arthur remains resolute.

“Do you need something, Arthur?” she drawls, haughty as ever.

“I want to know why you were talking to the Druid, to that Merlin, as if you know him,” Arthur tells her, tone a bit smug at having caught her in the act.

But Morgana doesn’t start. Her eyebrow merely climbs higher. “I suppose you think you’re so clever that you’ve ‘caught’ me unawares,” says Morgana archly, unperturbed, her feathers scarcely even ruffled. “You can let go of my arm, Arthur. We can talk inside like civilised people.”

Arthur snatches his hand back, hating her for a split second. She looks at him the way his father does sometimes: with tolerant amusement, as if he’s a dog yapping at their feet.

Morgana’s bedroom is as large as Arthur’s and more elegantly decorated. Of course, Arthur would never want a vase of colourful flowers on his table or the fancy beddings on his bed. The fire is still burning in the hearth. Morgana sits down on her chair with the air of a Queen. Arthur decides to stand not because it gives him the feeling of advantage.

“Do you know,” Morgana starts, “that it’s not at all gentleman-like behaviour to follow a lady around?”

Snorting, Arthur crosses his arms. “You’ve never been a lady, _Morgana_. It’s also unbecoming of a lady to speak with prisoners in the dead of night.”

Morgana smiles lewdly at him. “There is so much you don’t know about women, Arthur.”

Arthur’s cheeks turn bright red and he glares at her. “You’re trying to distract me. Well, it won’t work, you harpy. Now _tell me_.”

The teasing look wanes from Morgana’s face and she tilts her head, eyeing him ponderingly. He stands still under her gaze, fighting the ridiculous urge to squirm. Morgana does not scare him, even when she would look at him as if she’s already seen his future and judged him to be wanting. Sometimes, though, Arthur privately thinks Morgana unnerves the King.

“I’ve known Merlin since I was a little girl.” A small, secret smile flits over her lips, her gaze on some faraway vision. Then she focuses on him and her eyes are frighteningly intent. “He’s very special, Arthur. I _won’t_ let Uther destroy him.”

Arthur ignores what she said about his father. “How do you know him?” he asks instead, voice tight, and Morgana gives him one of those disdainful stares that Arthur loathes with his very being. “You’re not stupid, Arthur, as much as it pains me to say,” Morgana answers mockingly as she stands up.

“Who is the Druid going to visit tomorrow night?” Arthur demands next, thoughts racing. So, Morgana has dreamt of the boy before? She does not share the contents of her dreams, not even when Uther commands her to. She simply says, “They are my secrets until they come to pass.” Arthur does not understand the significance of Morgana dreaming about the Druid boy and his sudden arrival in Camelot as the Games most recalcitrant tribute.

He is still musing about it that he does not her hear reply. “I’m sorry?”

“The Great Dragon, Arthur,” she repeats a little impatiently.

Arthur blinks. “What dragon?”

“The one locked under Camelot. He is the one who calls Merlin. I believe Kilgharrah has a few _amusing_ things to tell him.”

Arthur smiles indulgently at her. “Yes, Morgana. Dragons. Of course.”

She rolls her eyes. “What is the point of asking when you do not believe the answers? Now, if you don’t have any more questions -- ”

“I do -- ” protests Arthur.

“ -- then I am going to sleep.” Morgana tugs him towards the door, refusing to listen to Arthur’s arguments. She shoves him gently outside. Arthur spins on his heels, eyes wide with indignation, but then stops in surprise when Morgana pats his cheek almost tenderly, saying, “Take heart, Arthur. I know you will come around, if you open your eyes.”

Then she shuts the door directly in his face.

 

 

It’s like time has been rewound as the Druid boy stands in the middle of the ring. His back is straight, his head held high. Defiance is painted all over his face.

This time, however, his opponent is a scar-faced man named Edwin who looks ready to cut apart the skinny boy.

Morgana, sitting on Arthur’s left as always, is much more composed than yesterday. Her hands are folded demurely on her lap, expression placid. Arthur hears some whispers about how regal Morgana looks, how beautiful, how sweet. If they can only see her up-close, the way her eyes burn as Edwin leaps to action, cutting at the Druid’s arm.

Blood spurts from the gash and the boy cries out in pain, one hand coming to clasp over the wound. But other than that, he does nothing.

“How stubborn,” Arthur hears his father murmur.

Edwin seems incensed by his submissive enemy and charges again, this time aiming at the boy’s legs. Arthur can’t hold back a quiet hiss as the sword parts flesh and muscle, sending the boy to the ground. The Druid’s wailing is difficult to hear, even though the boy deserves this. He does.

There is agitated mumbling from the spectators as they glance uneasily at each other. Arthur notices more than one hateful look directed at his father and his shoulders give a tiny jerk, shocked. They are sympathising with the boy. It’s a distasteful sight, to be sure, but the Druid had gone against the order of his King. He had rebelled against the rules of the Games and Uther has executed men for lesser crimes than this.

Arthur turns to his father. There is a small smile playing about Uther’s lips as he rubs his jaw thoughtfully.

Edwin lets out an enraged roar and lifts his sword high over his head. All of a sudden the steel is engulfed in flames. People shout in surprise, drowning out the gasp Arthur makes. Edwin is a sorcerer.

Part of Arthur expects the Druid to finally fight back now that he’s facing an opponent the same as he is. Merlin is lying on his back, steadily bleeding from his wounds, lungs rising in fast shallow intakes of air. He does not even flinch at the flames over him. He does nothing as Edwin pulls down his arms to strike him.

“No,” Morgana murmurs in tones of deep denial. Arthur looks at her just in time to see the shimmer of green in her eyes and he instinctively seizes her hands, startling her enough to abort whatever magic she is about to use. Morgana is ready to risk her own neck over this fucking stupid boy she’s only seen in her dreams. Helping out a tribute in the middle of a battle is punishable by death.

He stares at her, appalled and stunned speechless. Morgana stares back at him.

Then Uther is shouting, “Stop! That is enough punishment for today.”

The sword stops inches from the Druid’s face, singeing his fringe. Edwin pulls the flaming blade away and sneers down at Merlin. It all happens in the span of a few seconds, leaving Arthur reeling.

Uther waves a hand at the fallen boy. “Have him treated by Gaius; he will be brought here again tomorrow. Bring out the tribute from Derrona! Edwin, you will fight the Derronian instead.”

Arthur hastily regains his wits and he lets go of Morgana’s hands. There are faint finger-marks around her wrists, so tightly had Arthur held her. Heart beating fast, he forces himself to relax and keeps his gaze forward. “Do not do that again,” says Arthur softly, but his words ring with steel.

 

 

This time Arthur waits until the sky is nothing but inky black, the stars at its brightest, before he goes back to the dungeons. He pauses and stares, unwillingly unnerved, as a different guard stands in the same eerie motionlessness as the one had last night. Arthur averts his gaze, wonders if it’s contagious somehow, or if there are any ill-effects afterwards.

There are no voices echoing inside, Arthur having made sure Morgana had gone back to her own rooms (she’d been wearing a knowing smirk on the way there and her eyes had wandered frequently to the places Arthur hid in, no coincidence at all).

The dungeons are not a pretty place: the stone floors are filthy, scratched from the scuffing of nails and dragging feet and rats scurrying about; they are covered in grime and dried blood. There is a faint gagging stench in the chill air.

Most of the cells are empty -- Camelot does not keep prisoners for long; their blood stains the chopping block -- save for the midblock. The torch provides meagre lighting and Arthur takes it, hooks it into the holder directly next to the cell where the Druid is kept.

There he is: Merlin Emrys. The boy had been transferred back to his cell earlier this afternoon despite Gaius’ protests, but there is no sign of hasty work done on him. The bandages around his arm and leg are well done, hardly any blood seeping through the fabric which means the wounds have been burnt closed. It’s not a pleasant procedure, quite the opposite; Arthur remembers his own as if it had been done yesterday, the scar on his chest giving a twinge in remembrance. The boy is curled on top of the makeshift cot made out of hay, offering a bit of cushion from the cold floor. His face is visible in the orange glow, cheeks red and sore-looking from his close encounter with a flaming sword. A faint burnt smell is in the air mixed with dry copper, most likely from the Druid’s clothes.

In this one instant, resting peacefully despite his wounds and face turned to the light, the boy looks like any ordinary person Arthur might come across. A servant boy, perhaps, or one of the stable boys. The Druid has a peculiar face, all sharp angles and soft eyes and mouth, ears unnaturally large, lending him a look of ‘village idiot’.

But Arthur isn’t fooled by appearances. The young man had dared dishonour the Games, thus the memory of Arthur’s mother, an unforgivable crime.

“Druid,” calls Arthur, breaking the deep silence. His voice is soft, hesitant it might echo outside and be heard. When it seems no one is coming, Arthur tries again in a much louder tone: “Druid, you must wake up. It is I, Prince Arthur. Show some respect.” Only a sleepy snort greets that statement and Arthur feels a prick of irritation. He kicks the bars with enough strength to make it rattle noisily. “Oi, Druid, get up,” snaps Arthur and kicks the bars -- “Merlin!”

The sound of his name jolts Merlin out of sleep, head snapping up and carrying a bewildered, half-asleep expression that turns into a wince. He clutches his head as he looks around and mumbles thickly, “SzatyouMgause?”

Arthur frowns, stands straighter. “No, you idiot, it is _Prince_ Arthur.”

Instead of the reverence that Arthur is waiting for, the boy stares at him with an unimpressed look. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to let injured people rest? I thought it is part of royal education in etiquette or something.”

At first, Arthur doesn’t understand what is going on. Is the Druid boy, prisoner in Arthur’s castle and under his mercy, actually insulting him? Indignation sweeps through him but Arthur decides to be magnanimous, tries to see this as possible delirium from the injuries the boy has obtained. “It is without doubt that you must have brained yourself during the fight -- unless you are truly mentally afflicted -- and I am willing to overl -- ”

The boy snorts and rolls – rolls! – his eyes. “Oh yes, I am very sorry for forgetting to cower or drool in your presence. Next time, when I am not wounded, burnt, or suffering an aching head, I will thank you for disturbing my rest, friend.”

Arthur tightens his jaw to keep it from falling open. The absolute bloody cheek! “What -- ” He sneers. “I am not your friend, boy. I am your Prince and if I tell you to grovel, you will do so immediately. I can get you imprisoned for your disrespect.”

“Already in prison, thanks.” The boy gives an insincere smile. He settles back on the hay, looking Arthur up and down. “I was wrong to think you are a prat. Instead, you’re an _enormous_ prat.”

Arthur can’t believe his ears. Only Morgana talks to him in such an impertinent manner. This Merlin is an idiot of the highest order. “I should put you in the stocks,” he gives Merlin a vicious grin, “but as you’re already in the worst situation possible, I will reserve the stocks for later.”

Merlin widens his eyes, “Your generosity is commendable.”

Arthur lets out a barking laugh. “And you are fucking unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told,” Merlin sighs and closes his eyes.

Arthur studies him, the skinny thing. “What have you done to the guard outside? Have you no sense at all? You are using enchantments illegally when you’re already in trouble! If you somehow addle that poor man’s brains -- ”

“Relax, your Highness, don’t get your knickers in a twist. No harm will come to him. It’s only to give me a little privacy so I can sleep at night.” Frowning, he gently massage his temples. A weary look comes over his face. “To what do I owe this pleasure, your Highness?”

For a moment, Arthur is struck by how _young_ Merlin is. He doesn’t understand why Merlin would do what he had done. “Uh,” his mind is unexpectedly blank. He gives himself a mental shake and uncurls his hands from the bars, clasps them behind him. “I am here to listen to your reasons for violating the rules of the Games. My father, the King, wants to know and so do I.”

“I see.” Then, in a flippant tone, “Do you always refer to your relations in such manner: My father, the King; my uncle, the Baron of Whatsit; my cousin, the something of someplace? It’s very prattish.”

Arthur blinks. “Good god, are you ill in the head?”

Unexpectedly, Merlin gives him a wide, toothy smile, cheeks dimpling. “I must be when so many people have said the same thing. The general opinion must be the truth, after all.”

Arthur feels wrong-footed, lips curving in reflexive reply, before he catches himself. He glares sternly at the Druid. “You haven’t given me your reason, boy. I don’t intend to stay here all night waiting for it.”

Merlin stays silent.

“You will not earn my father’s forgiveness if you keep this way.”

At this, Merlin’s eyes blaze. “I am not after his forgiveness. I don’t want anything from him.”

As Arthur stomps back to his room, seething, wanting to strangle the idiot with his bare hands, he realises he forgot to ask about this ‘he’ Merlin is supposed to have visited tonight. Dragons, indeed. He lets out a snort; Morgana is not going to deter him from knowing the truth.

 

 

“This is getting tiresome,” Arthur mutters as a guard leads a limping Merlin to the centre of the ring. Merlin smiles at the guard, who looks surprised, and then squints at the crowd. The boy looks as idiotic as he had last night. Arthur sighs.

Morgana sniffs. “Yes, certainly, because watching someone get knocked about like an animal can get so very boring. How life must be difficult for you, with such _uninspiring_ entertainment.”

Arthur scowls at her. “Why are you cross? I have not done anything to you.”

She gives a laugh that sounds -- mad, there is no other way to describe it. “Oh, you have not done anything at _all_.”

Arthur stares at her, bewildered. He opens his mouth for a scathing retort -- it’s unacceptable to let Morgana have the last word -- when his father waves a hand in consent. The other tribute, a proper one from Derrona who had defeated Edwin, bowed respectfully at the royal box. Arthur hums in approval.

Rather than doing the same and proving he does a sensible head on his shoulders, Merlin raises his hand and clears his throat. “Ehm, I have something to say before this strong-looking person kicks my arse.” Morgana smothers a laugh and there are similar twitters from the crowd. Arthur covers his eyes with one hand, despairing.

Uther’s face looks carved from stone.

“My name is Merlin and I’m the tribute from the Druids, I guess,” begins the idiot, “but I’m more than that. I’m not just some tool for a King’s stale retribution. I refuse to fight somebody on the grounds that it is the law. It’s a ridiculous law, anyway. Fighting in this tournament is only an excuse without any justifiable reason behind it. We’ve lost family and friends to this stupid thing. So I’m making a stand, because someone has to. This has to end.”

Ringing silence greets his words. Merlin blushes at the stares from everyone, including the Derronian tribute that is looking at him as if he has sprouted even bigger ears.

Arthur closes his jaw and dares a glance at his father. Uther has never looked more terrifying than that moment.

“Teach him a lesson, Derronian,” Uther says after a long, painful silence.

 

 

Merlin is truly a fucking idiot. Arthur does not understand where this unbridled rage is coming from. For degrading the Games, for that humiliating display, for not even trying -- Arthur simply wants to yell at the boy. He does not enjoy watching senseless violence -- _a lie, of course,_ whispers a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Morgana; _you enjoy the Games with all your heart. You have cruelty in you, bloodlust in battle and at home. You cheer as defenseless boys fall in defeat_ \--

 _Alright, damn you,_ Arthur yells back, _but Merlin is different. He’s not like the others. There’s something about him._

 _How would you know? You have never spoken to most of the lowly tributes before. Is it because Merlin stands for something you believe deep inside you?_

Arthur snarls and pushes those dangerous thoughts away. He promises to be extra petty to Morgana tomorrow. The guard stands still enchanted, naturally, and this only fuels his temper. He does not care that Merlin is sleeping; he had not cared the other night. Acting on suspicion, Arthur tries the door of the cell and it opens easily under his hand. Perhaps Morgana had done this, or Merlin. At the moment, Arthur doesn’t care. He strides to where the boy rests and seizes him by the uninjured arm. Merlin awakens with a startled gasp.

“ _Arthur?_ ”

“Do not use my name freely, idiot,” Arthur barks and throws him against the wall. Merlin hisses in pain, bending to clutch his leg. Arthur _does not_ feel guilt. “What do you think you are doing, Merlin? Do you not understand how you are only baiting my father to punish you further? My god, that speech you gave -- that was the most treasonous thing I have ever heard!”

Merlin lifts his head, eyes narrowed in pain and growing anger. “Do you want to hear something even more scandalous, Arthur? It’s all true, what I said. The Games are horrifying and very little people enjoy them, except for your precious nobles and blood-mad soldiers. It is an excuse to hurt and maim and _kill_. Do you think most of the tributes that had fought are still alive?” His tone shifts, turns earnest, as if he is trying to make Arthur understand. “They die, Arthur, from infection or blood loss, and for what?”

“We _fight_ for the memory of my mother,” Arthur says, echoing the words his father has said to him countless times after her death. “She was the most wonderful Queen and she died because jealous men wanted to bring Camelot down. We celebrate her during the Games!”

“No, Arthur, it’s nothing but meaningless vengeance” He shakes his head and leans against the wall, taking the weight off his leg. Merlin’s breathing is a little fast. “My mum remembers Queen Igraine and says she had the gentlest soul. Do you think she would have liked watching lives wasted in her name? It is for your father, the tyrant King.”

Arthur moves forward and grabs the front of Merlin’s shirt, snarling at him. “Fuck you, Merlin. You know nothing. Do you have any idea how my father, how we all suffered, after my mother’s death. I was only a boy of six! The poison lingered in her body even after all those years -- no physician could heal her, no enchantments could lessen her torment. So do not tell me it is for nothing.”

Merlin covers Arthur’s fists with one clammy hand. , Arthur dimly notices that his fingers are spindly, fragile. “Arthur,” murmurs Merlin with compassion, “I don’t belittle your mother’s pain. No one should endure such agony. But the men responsible for it are dead; you father made sure of that. He has brought Albion together under his control. He is High King, but he should not let his people suffer because he cannot ease his own pain. Most of them, they are good men with families, loved ones, and yet their lives ended tragically short. When -- when you are chosen as tribute, your village prepares the funeral pyre even before you leave for the Games. We prefer not to be tributes at all.”

But Arthur is done with this conversation. Merlin is _wrong_. He has to be. He gathers the fury which he knows to be justified and lifts Merlin by his shirt, ready to hit him for his audacity. Merlin’s head is tilted slightly back, watching him quietly, waiting. There is a ridiculous scratch above his eyebrow, exhausted shadows under his eyes. Arthur swears and shoves Merlin ruthlessly against the wall.

“You are wrong,” Arthur declares in a strong voice. With a last glare, he leaves, slamming the cell door behind him.

 

 

There are shouts coming from the council room. Arthur pauses at the threshold. Morgana is shrieking at his father, quite unlike the angry but composed way she shows her disapproval. The councilmen are looking away in discomfort. Gwen stands to the side, stricken. Uther’s face is tight, a nerve ticking on his forehead.

“You are perverting cruelty into honour for games that take the lives of innocent people!” Morgana rages, her face flushed and hands fisted in her skirts. She looks ready to strike the King. “Why must you continue this, Uther? Hasn’t Merlin suffered enough? He bled and bled on Gaius’ table while you sit here as if it is nothing at all! Is life so trivial to you? He is only doing the right thing! Igraine would have not wanted this at all!”

Arthur closes his eyes in dismay. For Morgana to have gone so far and to echo things Merlin has said…

“Stop, Morgana!” Uther yells, fury animating his face. He goes to his feet, glaring thunderously at her. “You have no right to use her name against me. You have said _enough_. Take her away to her room,” Uther gestures at the guards, “and keep her there for as long as I say.”

A guard steps forward and reaches for her arm. Morgana swats him away with a growl and holds her head high in righteous anger. She looks directly into Uther’s eyes. “My father was your ally and he died for you,” Morgana tells him, “but not in the battlefield. You had called him your friend and then willingly sacrificed him to your useless revenge. I do not wonder who else you will lose eventually. Come, Gwen.”

Gwen anxiously trails after her Lady and the guard follows after both of them. There is a tense silence after their departure. Uther falls on his seat, fingers digging into his temple, face troubled.

He had gone to Gaius’ chambers after the fight; hands shaking as he’d recalled the way Merlin’s thin, battered body had been swept around like a plaything. Merlin had lain unconscious on Gaius’ worktable, the wood stained with his blood.

The sight had shaken something loose in Arthur, made him want to trace the cruel wounds, apologise for them. Had stared at his face, wondering at Merlin’s foolish stubbornness. After making sure Merlin will live (but how much more can his vulnerable body take?), Arthur had gone to see his father, not knowing what he will say but feeling that he _should_ say something.

Now as Arthur looks at him, he sees an aging King who might have made a mistake, one that has cost lives and immeasurable suffering.

 

 

“Do you know why I refuse to fight?” Merlin says in a quiet voice later that night. He lifts his head from the circle of his arms. The new bruises are stark on his ashen skin, one eye swollen and new bandages around his waist. His face is so profoundly sad that Arthur does not have the heart to make petty comments.

Instead, Arthur tries for a teasing tone. “Because you have a mental affliction?”

“My friend, Will,” continues Merlin as if Arthur hadn’t spoken, “had been the tribute from the Druids last year.”

“Ah.” Arthur remembers him. The boy had put up a courageous fight, if Arthur wants to be generous, but had faired spectacularly bad against the burly knight he had faced. The boy had been knocked down after a few easy blows, sustaining a serious injury to the head. He had not woken up after that.

“He was brought home a corpse,” Merlin whispers in anguish, eyes distant and moist. “Will did not have magic and should have never been chosen. I was not of age yet and the most promising fighter was a boy we all knew, waiting for his son to be born. Will couldn’t – wouldn’t – make anyone an orphan and made a deal. He won their contest and was chosen to go to Camelot the next day. I wanted to go with him but I still had my studies to attend to. I’ve always hated the Games, but when Will was returned to us, pale and still and never again to tease me,” his voice turns small, tears slipping free, “that was when I made my vow.”

Arthur does not know what to say. He stays quiet, staring at the shadows that swallow up half of Merlin’s curled form. He wants to say something, offer condolences, kind words, but he only remembers jeering at Will last year. Shame leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Will had been somebody’s friend. Merlin’s friend.

“Will’s mother cried for ages when she learnt her son was to fight in the Games,” are Merlin’s last words that night, “but she could not shed a single tear after he was brought home. I held her all night and cried for the both of us. I hope my mother will have someone to comfort her after this. She, too, had wept when I left.”

 

 

The Games proceed on without pause, little rounds that do not require the presence of the royal family. It is almost like a normal day. Arthur is training with his knights, laughing and joking in the camaraderie that has formed between men who have fought side by side in countless battles.

“It is without doubt that Arthur will take this year, as well,” Bedevere huffs from where he’s lying on the ground, staring warily at the blade point close to his face. Arthur grins and puts away his sword, reaching down to pull the knight to his feet.

“If you train every day, Bedevere, perhaps you will gain enough skill to beat Arthur out for a spot in the Games next year,” Kay calls out with a loud laugh, slapping his leg with a hoot.

Bedevere brushes dirt from his armour and says, dryly, “I recall quite clearly that Arthur thrashed you last year, Kay. No challenge at all.”

Kay and Bedevere glare at each other. The younger knights give a loud cheer as the two begin to circle each other, swords raised menacingly, coming together and pushing apart in mock battle. Leon comes to Arthur’s side and rolls his eyes at the two. “They are acting like children,” he says with disapproval.

“They’re fine the way they are,” Arthur says with a clasp to Leon’s shoulder, using his other hand to take off his helmet. “They’re a bit silly but good men when they need to be.”

They watch as Kay hits Bedevere lightly on his helmeted head with the hilt of his sword, and Bedevere spins as if it had been a fatal blow. There are even exaggerated grunts and yells.

Leon smirks at him. “Bedevere is right, you know. No one else will get to fight for Camelot until you grow older, or willingly bow out for another.”

“The only way for that to happen is if any of you will actually beat _me_ ,” says Arthur cockily. Out here in the open, the sun bright overhead, and the familiar sounds of his knights surrounding him, it is easy to forget Merlin and his passionate words. There are no doubts creeping in the back of his head. Leon laughs out loud, shakes the sweat out of his hair. “No one else will ever taste the glory of winning the Games.” He pauses, gaze somewhere behind Arthur, and speaks in a pining tone, “Gods, she is too beautiful. Are you certain you will not marry her, Arthur?”

Arthur spins on his heel and sees Morgana across the field, walking with two of Merlin’s Druid companions, a tall woman and a small child. “Morgana?” He can’t keep the distaste out of his voice. “She is beautiful, to be sure, like a snake is beautiful. I pity any man who will take her. They must have balls of steel.”

“I will never understand your relationship with the Lady,” muses Leon with amusement.

“She is like my sister, Leon, and that is that.” Arthur sheaths his sword and hands Leon his helmet. “Now, I have to give the Lady Morgana a proper greeting,” he answers when Leon gives him a puzzled look. Arthur runs a hand through his hair, striding to where Morgana and her companions have stopped to look at him. Truthfully, Arthur is only curious about the other Druids: if they are like Merlin at all, or if Merlin is a special thread in the tapestry.

Arthur gives them a proper bow, taking Morgana’s hand and kissing the back of it. “My Lady,” he says graciously, “you are out of house arrest, I see.” Behind him, he can hear the raucous cheering from his knights at the display.

Morgana eyes him in half-amusement, half-affronted. “Arthur,” she says in the same tone as her expression. She gestures at the woman next to her, her white-blond hair unbound all the way to her waist; her look is naturally fierce. “Meet Lady Morgause of the Druids. She came here with Merlin. And this is little Mordred.”

The child is staring unblinkingly at Arthur, his blue eyes almost unnaturally bright. Arthur feels a cold shiver from that sharp gaze and he frowns a little at the boy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Morgause, young Mordred,” says Arthur after the introductions. He gives them a polite smile.

“I wish I could say the same, but you have imprisoned my friend for doing only what is right.” Morgause stares at Arthur, and the look on her face says she is unimpressed by what she sees. “I would have broken that silly boy out of prison and brought him home.”

Arthur is taken aback by her words and wonders if all Druids are so outspoken. The other one, that old man, hadn’t acted like Merlin or Morgause, but had grovelled shamelessly at Uther’s feet. He swallows his anger and coolly says, “Even at the cost of war with Camelot? Be careful, Lady, for what you say is treason and could get you hanged.”

Morgause lifts her chin, undaunted. “I am not afraid of the likes of _you_ , Prince Arthur. Blind people are the easiest to defeat.”

She is like Merlin, but different as well. There is no -- hardness to Merlin, no natural rage. It is clear that Merlin is meant for smiles and foolish acts, but Morgause is like the men Arthur has faced in battle, ferocious almost. But there is no excuse for her words. He grits his teeth against the urge to take his sword. “Lady Morgause, if you do now have care for our laws, then why have you not freed Merlin? I assume you have -- means to do so.”

The woman gives him a chilling smile. “Oh yes, Prince, I do have the _means_. But it is Emrys who refuses, make no mistake. His mind has been poisoned by the words of that beast.”

The beast must be that dragon Morgana spoke of. Arthur knows that Camelot used to imprison dragons under her foundations centuries ago, but those creatures have long since died. He had met Morgana’s words with the credibility it deserves – that is, none at all – but these people are convinced there really is a dragon under their feet. Morgana smiles smugly at him. “Nonetheless,” Arthur says instead, trying to keep his voice from choking at _dragons_ , “Merlin is clearly the more level-headed of you two, shocking as that may be. He is not so stupid as to risk breaking free.”

Morgause shares an amused look with Morgana and it sets Arthur’s teeth on edge. He does not like being the butt of jokes, especially ones he does not know about. The child, Mordred, slips his hand into Morgause’s, never taking his eyes off Arthur.

“What?” Arthur snaps, patience stretched thin.

It is Morgana who answers him. “Dearest Arthur,” she starts, a smirk playing on her lips, “do you not know who Merlin is? What he is capable? He can destroy everything with a single look. Even more, he can _create_ ; play with the rules of nature as he wishes. Why do you think Merlin is still in the dungeons, when he can free himself with ease?”

Arthur’s heart thuds dully in his chest. Merlin can warm up the floor to make it comfortable, and enchant men so he can be as loud as he likes, he can’t be as powerful as Morgana describes.

“Why?” Arthur asks, hoarse-voiced.

Morgana sighs and looks at him as if he is stupid. “He is waiting for change.”

 _You_ , Arthur hears.

 

 

The candlelight flickers on the table next to Arthur’s bed. The fire in the hearth has long since been reduced to cinders. Arthur shifts in sleep, eyebrows pulled taut together. Sweat shines on his bare chest. His fingers twist the silk covers into knots.

He dreams of blank faces, bloody wounds, and his mother watching, standing behind the throne of his father. Uther is smiling in pleasure while Igraine weeps blood. Then Merlin is there, standing in the direct path of Arthur’s sword. Arthur does not miss.

With a strangled gasp, Arthur awakens, heart jumping into his throat. The images do not disappear. The phantom sensation of Merlin’s blood glossing his hands feels all too real. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses and flings the covers off him.

 

 

His footsteps echo loudly in the silence but the guard does not even flinch, once again enchanted into senselessness. Arthur doesn’t even spare him a second glance as he usually does, instead heading straight to Merlin’s cell. His heart is a wild thing in his chest and Arthur’s thoughts slip and collide against each other. He is moving out of impulse, out of the newly-born doubt feeding his fury. The gate is unlocked when he kicks it, and the fact that Merlin is _waiting_ for him angers him even more. That Merlin can walk out any time, can possibly slay every person that attempts to hold him, leaves Arthur breathless with rage.

Merlin sits on the floor, mindful of his many injuries, face drawn. “Arthur?” Merlin says tentatively, eyes widening at the sight of Arthur’s face. Arthur can only guess what Merlin is seeing but if it mirrors the seething blackness eating away inside of him, then it must not be a welcoming sight.

Arthur resists the temptation to haul Merlin to his feet, shake him until his teeth chatter, injuries be damned. He takes a deep breath. “Heal yourself,” commands Arthur, pinning the boy with a rigid stare. “ _Now!_ ”

But the fool only shakes his head, raises his chin in that utterly infuriating insolence. “I won’t, Arthur. You know I swore not to join in the Games, not even to heal myself. You think I’m mad and stupid, I know, but I gave my word -- ”

Arthur bends down and grips Merlin’s shoulders, trying to ignore the wince this effects. “Who, Merlin?” he yells in exasperation, near his breaking point, god help him. “Who is so important that you’re _fucking_ prepared to die for nothing?”

The boy’s head snaps up and the look on his face is fierce. “To myself, Arthur! I promised myself that I would not let the Games change me. You won’t ever understand because you’ve grown up living the Games your entire life. I had no choice but to come here, it’s my fucking destiny,” Merlin spits the word out as if it’s dirty, “but before I rode that horse, I promised, and I will try my damnedest to keep it!”

“We fight for the memory of my mother,” Arthur says to him what he had said before, but there is less conviction in his voice.

Merlin looks sadly at him and repeats what he had said in reply to those words. “No, Arthur, it’s nothing but meaningless vengeance.”

They are both breathing harshly by the time Merlin’s words stop echoing in the dark. Merlin’s eyes are earnest and honest and so very blue that Arthur makes a frustrated noise and crushes their lips together. Merlin gasps at the unexpected kiss, leaving his mouth open for Arthur to plunder. He drags his tongue over the cut on the side of Merlin’s mouth, making the boy hiss. The sound goes straight to Arthur’s cock, straining against his breeches. He slants his mouth angrily over Merlin’s, punishment for every time he’s ever mouthed off or overstepped his bounds. But Merlin only groans in pleasure, tongue reaching for Arthur’s own, and the surge of lust nearly brings him to his knees.

Arthur’s back is screaming in protest at the awkward position. He tries to haul Merlin to his feet but the pained whimper stops him cold. Remembers that Merlin is covered in wounds that have not yet healed and should be recuperating in a warm bed, not in a freezing cell in the dungeons. He kneels in front of Merlin, softens his kiss then, licking away the hurt from Merlin’s lips. Arthur moves lower, nuzzling the skin under Merlin’s jaw. “Merlin,” he says softly, puffing air that has Merlin trembling, “won’t you heal yourself? If -- if you can’t do it for the Games,” Arthur swallows thickly, “then do it for me. You are a stranger, yet it kills me to see you hurt. By the gods it shouldn’t, but it does. I should hate you. I -- I _don’t_.”

A hand touches the back of Arthur’s head, gripping the soft yellow hair. Merlin lets out a shaky breath.

“Merlin, please.” The last plea is soft, almost uncertain.

His gaze flicks up and sees Merlin chewing his lips, eyes screwed shut. A moment later, Merlin’s chest rises and falls on a deep breath; his eyes open, flaring with that golden light that holds Arthur transfixed. Arthur can feel something in the air, vibrations perhaps, and warmth, and looks at Merlin with rounding eyes. He has seen Merlin do magic before, the only sign those gleaming eyes, but he feels warmth sighing over Merlin this time, his skin hotter than it should be. Arthur gently unwinds the cloth over the gash on Merlin’s left arm. He gasps as the red, jagged wound heals before his very eyes, turns lighter and lighter until the redness is gone, until it is only a faint, silvery scar, until nothing is left but unblemished skin. Arthur’s hand darts forward, hovers over the skin, then presses a palm to where the gash had been. He looks at Merlin, questioning, but Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur undoes bandages and the boy’s shirt and watches as the same happens to the rest of Merlin’s injuries. The one on the leg disappears completely. So does the slice on the stomach so close to Merlin’s internal organs. His broken ankle twists itself to rightness. The bruises on his chest and hips when he had been rammed against a shield vanish. The cut beside his lip is no longer there. Merlin is whole again.

He takes a deep, unsteady breath. Morgana had been right. Merlin can leave any time he wants to, defeat all of them with a single hot-eyed look, but he won’t because he is there to make a stupid statement and Arthur is close to believing him, damn the boy. “Arthur?” comes Merlin’s soft voice, and his eyes are blue again, watching him uncertainly. Arthur stares at the boy’s lips, pink and slightly parted. He can think about those things later, can’t he? For now, he has to kiss Merlin again, palm his hip, trace his fingers over the protruding hipbone. Merlin’s skin is soft and he is skinny, all elbows and bones. Merlin whimpers when Arthur bites his neck, arms winding around Arthur’s shoulders to bring him close, using his grip on Arthur’s hair to pull his head back for a kiss. There is no hesitation this time as Arthur manhandles Merlin out of his breeches, Merlin tugging impatiently on Arthur’s own clothes. They get naked in a flurry of flailing limbs and wet, sucking kisses that have Arthur panting, pushing Merlin harder against the wall.

“Gods, you’re so -- ” moans Merlin as he maps Arthur’s chest with his hands, his eyes tracing the sharp cuts of muscle almost dreamily.

“Fit? Handsome? Perfect?” Arthur teases then groans, shoulders locking, as Merlin reaches down to curl around his cock. “ _Big_ ,” says Merlin breathlessly, slowly moving his fingers over Arthur’s length, then stripping him mercilessly when Arthur bucks his hips. The stone floors are uncomfortable and cold under Arthur’s knees, the air nipping his skin, but he doesn’t care because Merlin is warm in front of him, touching him like a revelation. He presses his nose to Merlin’s hair, breathing him in deep, and his own shaking hand finds Merlin’s erection, teasing him softly that Merlin’s rhythm falters.

Arthur presses their foreheads together, watching the quicksilver emotions on Merlin’s face. Their breaths are harsh in the darkness, the sounds of their pleasure obscene. Arthur’s eyes are half-closed, teeth biting down his lower lip. He twists his fist over Merlin’s cock, swipes a thumb over the slick purpling head, and his breath stutters when Merlin mimics him. His touch his inexperienced and all the sweeter for it.

“Ar- _thur_ ,” says Merlin raggedly, bumping Arthur with his chin. His pupils are dilated, more black than blue. “Kiss me,” he demands, head tilted to the side, and Arthur rolls his eyes at the cheek but fits their lips together. Merlin’s tongue is clumsy in his eagerness, wheezing against Arthur’s mouth, voice going _ah ah ah_. Then Merlin goes still, arching into Arthur and his face twisting as he spills all over Arthur’s hand. “Oh, oh,” Merlin gasps, sounding almost panicked, lips slipping away from Arthur who laughs, chest rumbling with amusement, before it turns into a low groan as Merlin shakily rubs his own come all over Arthur’s dick, warm and wet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur curses emphatically as his hips snap up, pleasure blinding him.

He slumps against Merlin, mouth on the boy’s ear as he puffs out shaky breaths, ruffling the dark hair. Merlin is curled on Arthur’s shoulder, patting Arthur’s chest lazily. “Merlin, my arse is cold,” Arthur murmurs. The boy gives a tired sigh and a moment later, the floor, the very air turns snug as a blanket. The mess on their bodies disappears without Arthur’s prompting. This time, Merlin’s sigh is satisfied, burrowing into Arthur’s arms like a spoilt cat.

Arthur will have to leave before morning comes. For now, though, he can spare a few more moments in this warmth, removed from the rest of the world.

 

 

Arthur is headed to the tourney grounds, face set in deep, troubled thought, when he looks up and abruptly stops.

The sight of Gwen being held by the tribute from Powys is more than a little shocking. Had Arthur been so completely wrapped up with the Druid that he had not noticed this happening? He peers around the corner at them while keeping himself from view.

There had been a time when Gwen looked at Arthur the same sweet way, before Arthur had cocked up and made things awkward between them. But there is no other emotion underneath the surprise (Arthur refuses to think it might be Merlin, instead believes that it his own maturity that helped him move on). A sinking feeling unfurls in his chest as tears begin to fall from Gwen’s eyes. She looks distressed and the tribute -- a fellow named Lancelot who has gained a few ardent admirers, including, obviously, Gwen -- wears the same expression.

“You’ll be safe?” whispers Gwen a little pleadingly and Lancelot nods, squeezing her hands in reassurance. “I’ll try to my best, my lady; that’s all I can do,” he answers honestly, looking so noble in that moment that Arthur, shamed, wants to kick him.

“I hate this damned tournament,” says Gwen fiercely, defiantly looking Lancelot in the eye as if daring him to be outraged by her words.

Lancelot looks ready to agree but he just shrugs a bit helplessly in reply. The two soulfully stare into each other’s eyes for a few more moments before Lancelot’s companions call him towards the tourney grounds. Lancelot lingers a second or two longer before letting go of Gwen’s hands. He steps back and gives her a deep bow.

Gwen presses one hand to her lips, miserable.

Arthur stays where he is hidden for a long time after Gwen leaves. His heart feels heavy. Lancelot is just not a tribute anymore -- he is someone’s lover, Guinevere’s, and no longer a nameless face in a long list of tributes who suddenly gain identities. Not one of them is known to Arthur because he hadn’t bothered to know them in the past. _It had made it easier to fight them_ , Arthur thinks, _when they’d all been no one._

 

 

Everything seems too bright, brought into clear focus: the morning sun, cries of the battling tributes, the drawn faces of the spectators as someone finally falls. Their cries, which had sounded triumphant in the past, now carry undertones of disgust and sorrow. Morgana’s face is averted as it always is on the final stroke, but Arthur is only noticing now.

The sun is bright on his face and there is a light breeze that ruffles his hair. The roaring noise in his ears makes Arthur take a deep breath; only it’s difficult to breathe all of a sudden, his chest locking on the inhale. A terrible, heavy thing is forming in his gut, blanking Arthur’s thoughts because he won’t be able to bear them if he does think about --

“Well done,” his father’s voice calls out loud, penetrating the fog that has wrapped itself around Arthur’s mind. Arthur looks at the King, who is clapping in mild pleasure, nodding at Lancelot from Powys. “Quite well fought, don’t you think, Arthur? He will be a worthy opponent for you.”

Arthur looks back where a few of his own knights have come forward to collect the heavily bleeding man. Further back, waiting at the edge of the ring, is Gaius with a pursed look on his face. The final blow had been a sword thrust to the side of the stomach, not deadly perhaps, but infection could still kill him in the long run. Nonetheless, the losing tribute will not be walking ever again from the harsh wound on his thigh.

“Arthur?”

“Yes, Sire,” Arthur replies, hoarse, fingers tightening around the armrests of his chair. “It was a -- a competent battle.”

Uther gives a dark chuckle and rests his chin on top of a perched fist. “Pity. If only the Druid boy can be of same calibre. Ah, but it is entertaining, is it not? Foolish beliefs never amount past that.”

Unexpected rage gets caught up in Arthur’s throat, strangling the automatic reply on the tip of his tongue. But it had been _entertaining_ before, Arthur realises like a blow to the face. Watching trained men, untrained boys, knights, nobles, farmers, smiths, servants, friends, fathers, brothers, husbands, sons fighting for no more than the enjoyment of the High King of Albion. Wrapping the Games in pretty words and given honour, for the memory of the late Queen Igraine, who had whispered to Arthur, “Be a good King, my love. Honour and forgive your men. Love your father,” as she lay on her deathbed.

 _My father cannot forgive and he is punishing Albion’s people for a sin he cannot lay to rest. The Games aren’t in honour of my mother. She would never accept the loss of life as honour. It’s murder. Murder. Oh gods, it is murder --_

A soft hand touches Arthur’s arm and he turns to Morgana, who looks at him with deep eyes. “It is,” she tells him in a quiet voice that makes her sound gentle, but her gaze is pitiless. “It is what you have come to realise.” Then she removes her hand and follows after the King who is headed back to the castle.

 

 

The feast is lively tonight, Lancelot the centre of attention. He is surrounded by nobles praising his skill, his curly hair, his unknown parentage as if he is one of them. Fickle, they are. Gwen comes by now and then, replenishing Lancelot’s cup. Arthur does not miss the longing looks exchanged between them. When Gwen comes round to the high table, Arthur bids her forward. He ignores the narrow-eyed look Morgana aims at him.

Gwen stops next to his side and curtsies. “Is there something I can do for you, Sire?”

He wants to say _take Lancelot and go. I cannot defy my father,_ but Arthur only holds up his empty cup. “Please, Guinevere.”

Gwen does so and curtsies again before taking her rightful place behind Morgana. Morgana beckons her close and whispers in her ear, casting a glance at Arthur.

A hand on his shoulder makes Arthur turn to the other side, faces his father. “You will show us a good fight tomorrow,” Uther says, graces him a small smile in testament to his good mood, “won’t you, Arthur?”

“Of course, father,” Arthur replies, forcing himself to keep Uther’s gaze. “Lancelot is quite skilled in battle. But I will not embarrass you, certainly. I -- I am the Games’ champion.”

“As you should be.” The King grabs his cup and raises it to the air. The guests turn to him in anticipation. “For the Queen!”

There is an answering cry and the toasting of cups. The musicians begin to play in frenzy. Arthur makes the same exclamation, a lump in his throat, but before he can drink from his cup, his father stops his hand. “And you will avenge the insult to your mother’s memory, son, by executing the Druid yourself after you win,” says Uther in a vicious tone.

Uther lets him go and chuckles in genuine pleasure. Arthur drinks the wine and it slides down his throat like slime.

 

 

The fire crackles noisily, eating the wood to cinders. Arthur gulps down the final inch of wine and drops the cup carelessly on the floor. He’ll be a drunkard by the time the Games come to a close. He stands up and sways a little, one hand catching the top of the chair to keep upright. Arthur manages to shake off most of the dizziness and he opens his eyes, takes a cautious step, then another one, much more confident. He’s soon striding outside, down the empty corridors, down the stairs, down, down, down to the dungeons where it is cold and wretched and fetid. Merlin’s enchantments are still working, the guards eyes’ focused on the wall even as Arthur waves a hand in front of the man’s face. Arthur snickers, giddy with the knowledge that no one will ever know he’s been here.

He stops in front of Merlin’s little prison. The only light comes from the lit torch behind Arthur and the glow doesn’t quite reach into the cell, casting the inside in even deeper darkness. Arthur’s already blurry vision cannot make out Merlin’s figure in the shadows. He wraps his hands around the bars and then rattles it. “ _Mer_ lin,” hisses Arthur, “wake up, you lazy lout.”

A second later a pale hand comes to view, then another, followed by Merlin’s head. His hair is messier than usual, with bits of straw sticking out. He blinks sleepily at Arthur, cheeks lined from pressing his face to the straw-strewn floor.

“Arthur?” the boy asks, groggy-voiced. A fist reaches up to rub at one eye. “What are you doing here?”

There’s conflicting exasperation and thrill at Merlin’s familiarity. He breathes out, “Open this gate,” and shakes the bars some more. There is a bright flare in Merlin’s other visible eye and the gate swings open with a soft click. Arthur thrills at that too, rare moments when Merlin is effortlessly obedient.

Arthur ambles inside and crouches in front of the boy. Merlin watches him curiously, no resentment, no disgust, no condemnation for what Arthur had said. And yet, should it not be Arthur who feels bitterness? For if Merlin had not come to Camelot with his unshakable belief then Arthur would not question the Games, his father. If Merlin had not come, Arthur would gladly go and fight tomorrow, bringing that rare look of pride into his father’s eye.

If Merlin had not come, Arthur would still be blind, and he will gladly go and fight tomorrow, spilling innocent blood to bring that rare look of pride into his father’s eye.

The anger that had sizzled all day long under his skin vanishes under the drowsy, uncomplicated gaze Merlin has on him. The guilt surges, and horror lances through him like a physical blow, making him gasp out loud. His cheeks are wet and Arthur cannot stand to be in his own despicable skin, hates the blind, blind, blind fool he has been.

Arthur can’t hurt Merlin. He _won’t_.

Merlin jerks upright and catches hold of Arthur’s trembling shoulders. “Arthur, what’s wrong?” he asks desperately, fingers digging into muscle. Gold suddenly swirls in Merlin’s eyes. “Can I fix it? Arthur, what, did something happen? Is it Morgana? _Arthur?_ ”

Low sobs wrench from his throat and Arthur panics at the unstoppable flow of his emotions. He tries to breathe and speak but his tongue is clumsy, his mind wrecked. Arthur tightly holds on to Merlin’s arms, shuddering like the earth under the hooves of horses. He cannot spell out the pain behind his heart, so private a burden that Merlin can’t ever share. Merlin, whose hands are as clean as rain, powerful as a storm. This boy who is witnessing the collapse of faith, who is touching someone who has killed for entertainment.

He can all too easily imagine his mother’s eyes brimming with disappointment. How could he think she would have wanted this to happen?

With a stuttered moan, Arthur pushes away from Merlin and backs against the iron bars. He throws his head back, barely feeling the dull pain of impact. He covers his leaking eyes with both hands, trying to catch his breath. “I,” cries Arthur in a wretched voice, “I am a -- a failure. A f-fucking idiot. A m-murd -- ”

A mouth seals frantically over his before Arthur can finish, Merlin cradling Arthur’s face like it’s a gift. Arthur drops his hands and stares at Merlin, who is crying along with him, and the compassion, and _fondness_ , in his eyes is almost painful to behold.

“Hush now,” Merlin whispers roughly, kissing him once more. “You’re more than that, Arthur. You are,” he says fiercely when Arthur shakes his head like a petulant blubbering child, “because I am not staying with a King who is less than honour and -- and goodness itself. You will be great someday, and your kingdoms will love you. And for the blood spilt, every life given away -- they will _forgive_ you out of the goodness of their hearts, because they still believe in you, their future King.”

This time Arthur is the one who kisses him, stopping the tumble of words that threaten to make him believe.

 

 

Arthur leaves while Merlin is still sleeping, hearing the bustle of life above him. He traces a finger down the boy’s cheek before he goes, lingering on the corner of his kiss-swollen mouth. A part of him, most of him, does not want to go. He should take Merlin and bring him to his chambers, place him on the bed where he might rest better. Then again, Merlin is sneaky, and the bit of floor and straw he’s laid on for nearly a week is as soft as the mattress on Arthur’s own bed.

 _Sorcerers_ , Arthur thinks fondly.

But the gentle feeling in his chest disappears when Arthur steps into his normal life. He almost forgets what day it is but is reminded harshly when Cedric, his manservant, finds him on the way to his rooms, looking harassed.

“Sire, we are all waiting for you,” Cedric tells him, nearly a chastisement, and grabs the chainmail prepared on the table, next to a steaming breakfast plate. “The grounds are full to bursting with the eager crowd! Mind, I reckon it’s more to do with the thrashing you will give that Druid after you defeat the tribute from Powys; I can never remember their blasted names. Ah well, lift your arm, if you please.”

 

 

Arthur is not a stranger to this moment. He has been here many times before, in full armour for the final part of the Games. His opponent, Lancelot, gleams silver across from him. The only sound Arthur hears in his helmet is his breathing, slow and calm. He can see the crowd clapping and stomping their feet, but Arthur can also see loathing for what is about to happen. The High King of Albion, his father, sits in his throne, back straight and crown atop his head. Morgana sits on Uther’s right. Her eyes are darker than ever and there is no one to stop her should she try to interfere in the battle. Behind her is Gwen, gaze resolutely on both combatants -- brave, wonderful Gwen who had wished him good luck though Arthur will step on the ring in a moment and fight her love. Above, a storm is brewing.

He is not there, but Merlin feels like a physical presence nonetheless. Merlin might still be sleeping -- they had had a long night -- or he is awake, awaiting his turn to be called up to meet Arthur’s sword.

The battle begins.

Lancelot _is_ a good swordsman, strong and agile, his footwork equal to some of Arthur’s own best knights. There are shouts of approval from the nobles as Arthur easily evades blow after blow. Lancelot does a sudden spin and surprises Arthur into raising his sword. Steel clashes steel, both fighters straining and pushing. Lancelot’s eyes are dark and honest in his helmet. They seem to look right into Arthur and with a growl, Arthur shoves him back.

His armour suddenly feels heavy, constricting. Arthur’s breaths come in sharp and quick though he is not winded. Lancelot’s eyes looks like Merlin’s.

Lancelot regains his balance and holds his sword perpendicular to his body, the blade gleaming wickedly. With an almost angry yell, Lancelot charges.

Arthur just stands there in the middle of the ring and he decides. He doesn’t want to be this person anymore. Arthur is more than a tool for his father’s never-ending revenge; he is _better_ than that. Better than his father. Merlin is right after all. Arthur wants to be a good King, one his people do not fear, and though he may not live to be King after this, Arthur still has to start here.

He closes his eyes for a moment, imagines Merlin’s face. His mother would have probably liked Merlin, foolish as he is -- because he _is_ foolish.

The sword drops from his limp fingers. His shield follows. He takes off his helmet, lets it clatter to the ground. Arthur opens his eyes and sees his father standing, eyes wide in disbelief. Everything is clear now.

Lancelot’s shocked face comes to view and he tries to stop his momentum, digs his heels into the ground. It’s too late, though, Arthur knows. He feels the blade sink into his chest, no pain at first, just a strange invasive pressure. Then the agony comes, white hot, and Arthur gasps, fingers curling around the sword. He can hear roaring from the crowd, from his still beating heart. Arthur pulls on the sword and it gives in easily, drenched in blood. Arthur coughs as the tip of the blade leaves him, red spilling from his mouth. The sword falls from his numb hands. His body pitches forward, the world spinning madly, and then there are shaking hands round his shoulders, easing him to the ground more gently.

Arthur stares into Lancelot’s dismayed eyes. His hand jerks up and scrabbles at the other man’s breastplate, staining it with blood. “Mer -- M-Mer -- t-take -- M-M-Merl-lin and _g-go!_ ” Blood flows from his wound, from his mouth, and there is pain, god, there is. Arthur can’t breathe. He thinks, I can never ask him about that blasted dragon now.

“S-Sire, I don’t -- I -- forgive me,” cries Lancelot, one hand pushing against the gushing wound on Arthur’s chest. “Please, Sire, you mustn’t -- you cannot-- ”

People are spilling onto the grounds. Gaius pushes desperately against the bodies to reach him. Arthur can’t look at his father.

Arthur grits his teeth, chokes on the blood filling his mouth. “M-Mer-l-lin, _f-find him_. S-Swear to m-me!”

Lancelot looks wild as he wrenches his helmet off. He is shaking his head, bewildered and terrified and aghast. “Sire -- ”

The sudden explosion of fire behind them drowns out Lancelot’s words.

 

 

“ -- gods, gods, you are so fucking stupid, the fucking stupidest person to have ever existed! Gods, so much blood, dammit -- Arthur, Arthur!”

Arthur opens his eyes and the world is blurry and orange and so much pain fuck ¬and there is Merlin, staring down at him with wide, wide eyes that turn wet when Arthur meets his gaze.

“You bloody prat, why did you do this?” Merlin whispers, traces a shaking finger down Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur can’t speak, gasping desperately for air, and he just stares at Merlin as he’s dying. Arthur wants to tell him to leave, why the fuck is he still around, can’t Merlin ever do anything right?

“Fuck -- ” Determination comes over Merlin’s face and he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he opens them, the blue has turned to gold. “Alright, I can do this. I _can_ \-- ” his voice breaks as he spreads his palms over Arthur’s chest. “Heal, damn you!”

Arthur’s back arches as warmth spreads through him, seeping into him from where Merlin’s hands are. His eyes roll back as the pleasant feeling quickly turns into pain -- pain so potent Arthur wishes for death to get away from it. His fingers dig into the ground, his other hand gripping Merlin’s neckerchief, holding on. He stares dumbly at Merlin, at the tense lines of Merlin’s face, at his eyes blind with power. Arthur can feel his insides shifting, patching, nerves reattaching, muscles knitting, and such great pain as life is forced back into him.

“By the gods, what is this sorcery?” and Lancelot appears out of the blue, kneeling on the ground soaked with Arthur’s blood. He stares down at Arthur’s chest in wonder. “Sire, your wound! It’s -- _closing_.”

And it is: Arthur doesn’t doubt it when he is suddenly able to take a shallow breath, filling his lungs. His mind clears a little, blinks when the orange light remains. Turns into --

 _Flames._

“What,” it’s still almost impossible to speak and Arthur licks his lips, tastes copper and dust, “ -- happened?”

Lancelot shakes his head, turns to meet Arthur’s eyes though his gaze flickers often to what Merlin is doing. “It’s the Lady Morgana, Sire. The fire is her doing. It is eating wood and fabric faster than the people can fetch water in their buckets! And Sire -- ” Here he hesitates, and then: “She is still there, surrounded by flames…with the King.”

She wouldn’t, not her. Not after Uther has done for her. She is _family_ \-- a flash of Morgana’s eyes, disconcerting in its anger, and Arthur is saying, stumbling on his words, “No -- she -- you must -- m-must go and save my father. L-Lancel-lot -- ”

“I can’t, Sire. The fire won’t let me. I was to get Guinevere but…she’s not there.”

“G-Go then,” Arthur dismisses, voice resigned. “Find h-her, keep her safe.”

Lancelot hesitates for a second and then nods, expression relieved. He gets to his feet, casts one lingering look on where Merlin is kneeling, hands desperate on Arthur’s blood. He disappears into the flames.

“M-Merlin,” gasps out Arthur, voice tight, “s-save my father. I don’t believe Mor-gana -- she is not -- go to him, he is your K-King.” He twists his fingers in Merlin’s neckerchief, bloody knuckles brushing the skin underneath. “Stop, you must go; _leave_ m-me.”

“Shut up,” Merlin grits out; his face is strained, skin shiny with sweat, lips pale as they press tightly together. “This is hard enough without you distracting me. I am not leaving you until you’re whole again, you bloody git.”

Arthur closes his eyes, feels a rumble in his chest. He can breathe easier now, think more clearly, the pain receding second by second. “I still love my father, M-Merlin. I know he’s not -- ah gods, that hurts! -- he’s not, but if -- if the same happens to the one I love, I -- I might do the same.”

Their eyes meet, Merlin’s still golden and Arthur’s glazed with anguish. Then Merlin drops his gaze, his voice shaky as he says, “That person must have a great deal of patience to stay with you. Now shut it, I'm trying to fix you. I can't leave you.”

Panic seizes Arthur’s thoughts. If he cannot force Merlin to go find his father, then Arthur must go himself. He tenses, tries to sit up, but though the flow of blood is getting thinner, his wound nearly fully healed, there is no strength in Arthur’s limbs. Frustration lights up in him, worsening the fear, and tears prickle behind his eyes. Gods, he has to do something!

But there is nothing to be done because at that moment, Morgana strides out from the flames, the great licking tongues parting for her. Her skirts swirl about her legs, hair flowing down her chest. When she stands over Arthur and Merlin, it’s clear her eyes are preternaturally green. She is changed, no longer the infuriating and wonderful girl Arthur has grown up with.

Merlin gives her only a dismissive glance then goes back to his work.

“I have done it,” announces Morgana, her voice an eerie resonance that sends a shiver down Arthur’s spine, “for my father, for Albion.” Arthur feels a pain greater than the physical blow that Lancelot had given him, because this, _this_ no one can heal. He feels numb, staring at Morgana above with disbelieving eyes.

Her eyes flicker to Merlin and an almost wistful look passes her face. Her voice turns to a whisper: “Take care of each other. Let no more of my dreams come to pass.”

Morgana looks past them, at Camelot’s towers which are barely visible in the smoke. The she turns away and disappears back into the fire.

Tears fall from Arthur’s eyes and great heaving sobs shake him from the inside, pulling at his tender wound. He can barely breathe again, grief weighing down his chest. Merlin is a blurry vision next to him.

“The K-King is _dead_ ,” Arthur all but wails, gasping desperately for air. “My father is _dead_.”

 

 

Later, Merlin will tell Arthur the bits and pieces of the truth he knows: that Morgana has dreamt of Uther burning since she was a little girl; that she believed it was Morgause who will set fire to Camelot, until the shadow was lifted and Morgana saw herself, eyes red with vengeance. Merlin will whisper into Arthur’s ear how the future is as infinite as the stars, but Arthur will always be the once and future King. Then Arthur will kiss Merlin on the forehead and wrap his hand tight around Merlin’s thin wrist as if to keep him close for the futures to come.

But not now, not yet, because Merlin is still whispering, “Hush, Arthur, breathe, breathe, _breathe_ ,” as the rain washes away the blood and ashes.


End file.
